


Post-script

by Ariasune



Series: Dæmon Falls [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Brief touch on themes of passive suicidal behaviour, Daemons, Daemonverse, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, sibling dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Poindexter, your deed is in the safe -- Wendy can open it for you -- don't worry about the mortgage, that's been paid off. Sorry about messing your life up again. Bye. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em><strong>PS</strong> - the milk is about to go bad, so you should use that up.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-script

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons come from His Dark Materials (Pullman), please read [here](http://hdm.wikia.com/wiki/D%C3%A6mon) for more information.
> 
> Stan's dæmon is a weasel named Merys, meaning Of the Ocean. 
> 
> Ford's dæmon was an Atlantic Yellow-Nosed Albatross originally. However, during the course of their thirty years between dimensions, Charys has resettled multiple times. Returning to their home dimension, Charys has taken the form of a wolverine. Charys is derived from Charybdis, a whirlpool monster originally from Greek Mythology, and a daughter of Neptune.

Bill is taken care of -- dead is a strong word -- and it is a  _lot_ more dramatic than it sounds on paper, so Ford keeps it short: 

> " **Today, Bill Cipher was defeated. This could not have been done without my family.** "

With that, Ford closes the journal, fingers curling on the golden hand sigil, before hastily scrawling a four over it. It feels strange to be letting go of this one, but after a moment, Charys noses it across the desk towards Dipper. He picks up the book with a look of such raw reverence, that Ford can't help but ask, "You will think more on my offer?"

"Yes, definitely. Absolutely," Dipper looks up from the book, beaming, and an exhausted smile curls over Ford's face.

"So," Sidra asks, perched on Ford's hat. Her nose twitches, watching Charys searchingly, "What are you gonna do now?"

Ford scratches Charys behind the ears, adjusting his glasses, "Publish a paper on inter-dimensional travel, I suppose. I do have thirty years of research," He shrugs wryly, rolling his eyes, "And Stan's meddling with the portal at least left a lot of readings..."

Awkwardly, Dipper fidgets with his journal, before Charys leans against Ford's side, looking at Sidra with a tired interest, "You two settled?"

Laughing nervously, Dipper sets the journal on the desk, "Yeah, just sort of happened during you know, end of days," Charys chuckles, and lighting up, Dipper reaches up to pull Sidra off his head. He holds her out for Charys to sniff, "She's a chinchilla," Dipper offers brightly.

"Ah," Ford settles his glasses again, and Charys licks Sidra's nose, despite the way her ears lay back. " _Chinchilla Lanigera_ ," There is a flare of disappointment, uneven in his throat, and Charys bounds up onto his shoulders, her large wolverine paws scraping on his jacket. Raggedly, she sits down, head tucked by his jawline. Seeing Dipper's smile falter, Ford flicks the brim of Dipper's hat, "She looks good."

"Really?" Dipper cups Sidra against his chest, and Ford nods firmly, running his fingers through Chary's fur.

"You're-" Ford halts, and Charys licks at his fingers, "Sure you don't want to stay?"

"We'd like to..."

"But," Sidra clambers up Dipper's chest, resettling on his hat, "There's more we need to learn than what you can teach."

"No offence," Dipper cuts in quickly, glancing between his dæmon and Ford with agitation. "We'll still be back next summer. It's just-"

"We'd like to grow up with our best friend," His dæmon's tail flickers, curling one way than the other. She looks at Charys very pointedly. "We're stronger together."

"I s'pose," Charys' teeth show, and Ford gives her a gentle tap on the nose.

"If this situation with Bill has taught us anything," Ford admits with an ache, "It's that people  _are_ better when they work together."

Dipper nibbles his lip, picking up his journal and tapping his fingers on the cover, "So-" He steels, "You, and Grunkle Stan..." He trails off, but really that says enough. Charys gives a skirl of a sigh, leaning tightly against Ford, and he strokes her ears thoughtfully.

"It's complex," Ford tells Dipper, and in all his years of presenting anomalous science to a rigid scientific community, he has  _never_ seen a more sceptical look in his  _life_.

* * *

Stan packs the kids onto their bus home, ruffling Dipper's hair around Sidra, whilst Charys playfully headbutts Sylva. At first, Ford is taken aback, even saddened, by Mabel's impersonal proffered hand, but he drops onto one knee to shake her hand anyway, "You're a good person, Mabel."

"So are you," Mabel drops his hand - and he realizes it was only ever a trap - because she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and yells in his ear, "I miss you already!" The hug is like a vice, and she holds on a little too long, before finally letting go. With a spring in her step, she bounds over to Stan, who has a hand on Dipper's shoulder and is telling him some final advice. Something a little too specific, but sweet anyway, and Mabel bodily leaps onto Stan for a hug.

It's warm, with the last of summer still settled in the air. As the bus pulls away, Ford scoops Charys into his arms, and he can feel the weight of her; the weight of something, standing next to Stan, and waving as the children go further, and further away. The warmth and weight of summer wells around him, and he opens his mouth to speak.

"It's getting late," Charys says, fur prickling in the fading light. She climbs out of his arms, wrapping about his shoulders, "We should head back."

"I could do with a full night's sleep," Ford laughs uneasily, not quite looking at Stan. Instead, he turns on his heel, heading back to the shack, when Stan calls after him. Ford twists back to look at Stan over Chary's immense bulk, and Stan holds out an uncracked pair of glasses. "Oh, those are mine."

"Found them in the shag rug room. Figured I'd keep 'em safe in the office," Stan cracks a glassy grin, "Almost forgot about them."

"Shag rug-" Ford's eyebrows furrow, feeling as if he's forgotten something about that room. Still, he dismisses it, taking the glasses gratefully, "Uh. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Stan adjusts his bolo, pulling it tight about his collar. He stares past Ford, studying Charys with an unreadable expression, before giving a satisfied nod. "Y'know, her new shape's growing on me. Almost as good as the albatross." Stan nods again, more to himself than to Ford, and turns towards the shack, smiling as he walks past. Scuffing Charys' ears, Ford follows his brother home.

Dinner is scratch, eaten in another weighty silence interrupted by dull sparks of small talk. The entire house is quiet without the twins' chatter, and brimming laughter. Ford comments that they really are boring old men, and Stan snorts. Tells him to speak for himself, as he takes another scoop of ice-cream. They go to sleep early, and Charys curls up heavily on Ford's chest.

When he wakes, the house is cold, creaking in the cool of autumn, and Stan is gone. There is, however, a grubby note, stuck to the fridge with a hello kitty magnet. Blearily, Ford peels it off, adjusting his uncracked glasses, and reading under his breath. 

> _Poindexter, your deed is in the safe -- Wendy can open it for you -- don't worry about the mortgage, that's been paid off. Sorry about messing your life up again. Bye._
> 
> _**PS** \- the milk is about to go bad, so you should use that up._

Charys is splayed over his shoulder, claws digging into the wool of his jumper, and she yawns through her teeth. "He could have tidied up this mess," She mutters lazily, and Ford opens the fridge, taking out the milk and shaking it. 

* * *

It's almost noon by the time Wendy shows up, and Ford is halfway through a second cup of coffee. He's feeling the caffeine a little strongly, and he never liked white coffee anyway, but for the life of him, he's not sure what to do with the remaining milk. "Woah- sorry dude," Wendy says, her dæmon - some kind of mountain lion, and the name escapes him - winding around her legs. "Just here to pick up my final paycheck. Stan said you'd be cool."

"Oh," Ford stands up, Charys's bristling fading, "Yes, please, come in." Looking down at the clutter of research material he's covered the front counter in, Ford's eyebrows furrow. He lifts up a few books uncertainly. "I'm sorry, I have no idea where that would be."

Laughing, Wendy waves a hand, the mountain lion at her heels growling with amusement, "Don't even worry. It's probably in the office, I can get it-" She points towards the back, "Alright if I...?"

"Please, by all means," Ford answers, Charys clambering up his shoulder.

"Awesome," She cocks a finger-gun, clicks it at him, and wanders past into the shack. More from lack of anything to do, Ford follows her into the darkened tip that Stan used for an office. Wendy immediately opens the second drawer, bringing out a small box of papers and rifling through it.

Glancing around the room, Ford's gaze lights on the safe, "Excuse me," The mountain lion looks up at him, "Stan said you would be able to open the safe."

"Oh sure, dude," Wendy dumps the box onto the desk, moving round to the safe and punching in the combination for him to see. "There we go," She scuffs her dæmon's ears as she walks back to the box she was rifling through.

"He could have written the combination down," Ford sets his coffee on top of the safe, and crouches down to inspect its contents. There's a handful of IDs - all with his name, and precious few with his actual photograph. He pulls out a small file, flicking it open to find Stan's prepared tax statements in advanced. Immediately the numbers don't add up, and Ford rolls his eyes.

Opening another box, Wendy snorts, "Stan - like -  _never_ wrote anything down."

"No?" Ford pulls out the paperwork on the house, and land. Like Stan's note said, the mortgage had been paid off.

"Oh no way," Wendy's dæmon comments, sitting next to Wendy, tail flicking lazily. "He was like mega paranoid. Said anything could be taken out of context."

"I suppose he, and I are different in that way," Ford replaces everything into the safe. He shuts it, before turning to the desk, and flipping Stan's note over. On the back he scribbles the combination down for later spitefully. "He could have at least stayed long enough to tell me himself. He just took off in the middle of the night! Like some kind of criminal! Not even a forwarding address-"

Uncomfortable, Wendy's dæmon coughs, "Well, sounds like Stan."

"Got it!" Wendy waves her paycheck with a grin, "Whew- Thank god."

Leaping onto the desk, Charys' head tilts, "Will you be alright for work?" She scuffs a paw on a stray bit of paper, shaking it off her foot.

"Oh!" She waves it again, "Yeah, yeah, actually, about to leave town. Gotta head up north to my cousin's mill for work."

"Sucks," Her dæmon chips in, and Wendy shrugs.

Ford picks up his coffee again, and looks at the lukewarm, pale coffee lurking in his cup. It's more than half-full. Charys continues to stumble through the uneven paperwork slouching over the desk, before Ford blurts out, a little clumsily, "I could use an assistant."

"Geez," She laughs again, "Sorry, man. I'm not like Dipper. Too nerdy for me-"

"Not that," Ford abandons his coffee, and plucks Charys up before she can become too tangled in Stan's finances, which are embarrassingly illegal. "I need help cleaning this place up. Getting mail," He looks at the coffee mug wryly, "Making coffee." He sets Charys on his shoulder again, "You'd be doing me a huge favour."

Both dæmon and girl look at each other, and then in concert, shrug, "Yeah, right then."

* * *

He can always tell when Wendy dumps Mabel's letters on his desk. She writes more frequently than Dipper does, but the content is often shorter. Glowing reports about clouds in funny shapes, and updates on the family, liberally coated with glitter. Opening each envelope is like unleashing a small dust cloud of sparkles, and throws Charys into sneezing fits. Dipper's letters are rarer, longer; full of thought and complaint and observation.

Winter has only just moved in, throwing its feet up on the house in a thick thump of snow, and already Ford cannot wait for summer to return. Even if it means Charys sweltering in her thickened fur, he's looking forward to Mabel and Dipper's visit. Still with the changing season, he looks at Charys covertly for signs of change, but save greying about the muzzle some more, she seems remarkably unchanged.

"You seem comfortable," He hedges, looking up at her over a warm bowl of soup.

She glances at him, but doesn't move her head from her paws, "We came home," Charys says at last, definitively. "I feel settled."

"Mh," He nods, and sets his spoon down. "But not the same."

"No," She says heavily.

Pushing the food away from him, Ford reaches over to pull Charys into his arms. Curling her against his chest, he breathes in the musty, cloying scent of her fur, and sets his head against hers. She heaves a breath, like it takes more out of her than she understands, and Ford shuts his eyes for a moment, curling his fingertips in Charys' heavy coat.

"It feels like us," She tells him, words barbed between her teeth, "But us doesn't fit like it used to."

Charys presses closer, a heavy ache in his arms. There is a feeling at the back of his throat, and he suspects it is regret. Still, the feeling is so different from the way he grits his teeth, remembering how readily he accepted Bill's flattery. That is an angry feeling, the desire to cram the past back into his mouth. This is instead bitter, a brittle taste that is difficult to talk around. It feels like there are words trapped in his throat, steeping until they taste like metal.

"We should have said something," Charys murmurs, nestling against the side of his neck.

He shakes his head, feeling her fur prick along his skin, "What was there to say, Charys?"

She laughs wryly, "What wasn't there to say?" Her fur crags furiously, "The house is in shambles, Aspen found rot in the porch, merchandise orders keep showing up, and some guy in the supermarket throws eggs at us!" Her tail fluffs up even bigger, "For a game!" Incensed, laughing, frustrated, Ford smooths a hand through her jagged fur, and Charys growls miserably into his shirt.

* * *

"Hey man," Wendy sets his coffee down on the table, before folding her arms across her chest, "Since it's spring, I figured I was gonna take the sign off," She gestures upwards. "You know, finally."

"Good," Charys says absently, sniffing at a stack of petri dishes. "I'm sick of tourists coming by," Ford doesn't even look up from his microscope, exchanging one petri dish for another. It is only when Aspen clears his throat, voice rough and rumbling, that Charys and Ford look at them properly.

"I can't do it on my own," Wendy pulls a face, and Aspen's ears swivel back, tail lashing. "It's a lot of work, dude. Can you hire someone to help me out?"

"Specifically," Aspen continues, "Can you hire Soos? He's a cool guy, and he's saving up to visit his girlfriend."

Ford waves a hand, turning back to his microscope, "It sounds settled then." As always Wendy stands there for a moment. Whenever she does that, she often asks questions about casual loading, or rates, and every time, Ford gestures in the direction of the office, or Charys gives her a withering stare. He isn't cut out for business, and he trusts his assistant enough by this point.

She seems to have realized that, because she leaves him to his work. By the next day, Soos comes into work with her, and Ford secludes himself in the basement. There's too much noise on the roof, and it's only in the lower levels that he can focus. However, when he ventures out for lunch - Charys trotting at his heels - he catches Soos briefly.

"Good afternoon Mr. Pines," Soos greets brightly, his dæmon scampering along his sleeve.

"It's Doctor," Ford corrects, before shaking his head and adjusting his glasses. "Actually, it's Ford."

"Gotcha," Soos tips his hat slightly, thumbing his toolbelt. "This is Lalita," Soos' dæmon is a rat; Ford had met a great deal of people with rat dæmons in academia, and by and large they're good people.

Soos is by no means an academic, but Charys nods her head, "Charys."

Soos laughs in a little rhythm, "See it's interesting that," His dæmon nips at his ear slightly, but he continues unimpeded, "You say the rys short, but Mr. Pines was like reece, like Reece's cups. Man, those're good, huh."

Charys clusters against Ford's leg, pressing warmly and weightily against him, "You mean Merys?" Stan's dæmon was a weasel, tucked away under his hat. Ford had barely seen her since returning, and now with Stan gone, this conversation feels far away. Charys - however - is watching Soos and Lalita with rapt attention, ears curled forward, head turned, entire body curved towards them with interest.

"Yeah, dawg," Soos smiles, "Since you guys are twins. Shame about him leaving town. Me n' Abuelita said he could stay longer, but hey," Soos shrugs, and the gesture feels so generous that Ford pauses.

The knowledge that Stan had not immediately left town when he disappeared was weird. Something that should have made sense, and did - ultimately - but that could not be reasoned, could not be worried into understanding. He could feel Charys bump against him, but asked anyway, "I don't suppose he left a forwarding address?" Soos' dæmon's bright eyes flick to him, and he faltered. "Just that- I have a lot of mail for him. Parking fines, stuff like that. I think one was from Cuba."

"He sent us a christmas card," Lalita offers. Her voice is soft, but clear, at odds with Soos' manner. "I don't think it will be any good though; the return address was a motel."

"Oh," Ford says blankly. "Well, thank you anyway."

* * *

Dipper and Mabel stay that summer, and it's  _wonderful_. The twins are a sight for sore eyes, and Charys is uncharacteristically playful, headbutting Sylva, and pouncing on Sidra, and grooming her fur, despite protest. He knows it's not the same as before, but none of them mention it, the same way Wendy doesn't mention how poorly Ford manages her employment, and the same way Lalita nips Soos' ear when the topic turns. Like spring, and winter, and autumn before them, summer passes by quickly, a fleeting thought of humidity, and adventure. They find a nest of gorgons in the woods who imprint on Dipper. Mabel's braces come off. There is an undeniably pleasant lack of one-eyed triangles.

It is over too quickly, and they promise to return the next year. Dipper's eyes glow when he tells Ford he's still interested in the apprenticeship, but to - please - hold the placement for a few more years. 

And there is one last thing - a dog-eared postcard that Dipper and Mabel offer him.

"Sorry, it's not much to go on," Mabel mumbles sadly, Sylva standing quietly at her side. The two of them are so rarely quiet.

Ford turns the postcard over, seeing an odd snapshot of a strange city. "It says it's from Toronto," Dipper comments, Sidra cupped in his hands like a pool of silvery water. "I tried calling the place, but he'd already left."

Turning it back over, Stan has wished the twins all his love for their fourteenth birthday. It is short, heartfelt, simple. Something too sincere to carry the weight it should; there is a carefully folded note in Ford's wallet with a combination written on the back, and it carries very much the same tone. For a consummate liar, Stan is almost suitably laconic when it comes to the things that matter.

"It's okay, kids," Charys promises. "It was a long-shot anyway."

Mabel bites her lip, Sylva beginning to worriedly chew on her sleeve, "You forgive him, right?" She asks, and Dipper elbows her sharply.

He tucks the postcard into his pocket, and Charys steps off his shoulder, and into his arms with all the weight she carries, "It's complex," She says gently, rubbing her head against Ford's jaw.

* * *

It's when the days shorten, guttering into autumn that the long-shot abruptly shortens. Dinner is scratch, as it has been for the most part of the past year, and the phone rings. Charys shifts on Ford's shoulder, glancing at the russet colour of the sky, and baring her teeth at the phone. Despite that, he reaches out, balancing it between his shoulder and ear, and Charys helpfully leaps onto the counter.

"Ford Pines," He announces, stirring the spaghetti-o's round the pot. "No, I'm afraid I don't know a Stetson Pinefield. Mh-hm-" Ford tips a few drops of tabasco sauce into the mixture in lieu of actual flavour, and Charys sniffs the stovetop, claws clicking on the countertop. Abruptly, Ford cups the phone to his face. "Weasel dæmon?"

The woman on the other end sounds exhausted, barely reacting to him. "Yes. Colour variant with blue-eyes," She continues haggardly, rattling the detail off. "His I.D didn't confirm, so we have very little information-"

Charys abandons dinner, pressing towards Ford with a searching expression. Turning the gas off, Ford moves his other hand to Chary's ruff, clasping her fur like a hand, and she pushes against him. "Yes," He adjusts the phone, "I do know him. His name-" He stops, not sure what to tell her: Stanley Pines is dead, the name buried under thirty years. "Bill," Charys nips at his fingers reproachfully, "Uh, William Woods. Unfortunate, but true-"

The lie dissolves, sinking in the next question she asks: "Do you know his next-of-kin?"

Immediately Ford answers, "I'm his next-of-kin," She scribbles something down, pen scraping on paper, and Ford swallows. "I'm sorry, who was this calling again?"

"Silver Birch General Hospital," Her voice has the dull-edge of someone who has been awake too long. "Idaho. He was found unconscious, and is currently having his stomach pumped." She doesn't even give him a moment to absorb the impact, "Are you able to come in? We need I.D...information on his primary health care provider..."

Beside him, Charys' teeth clench, clacking in her jaw, and he thumbs along her muzzle, "I'll be there as soon as I can," He's not sure what he can do for identification, and he's very certain Stan has no insurance. He's more sure that those don't matter to him. "Mhm-hm," He affirms tightly, before pushing for something that  _does_ matter, "What's his condition?"

"Mh-,"She barely sounds conscious, let alone still competent - but he shoves the thought away. Whoever she is, she's only contacting a relative. It's not exactly intra-dimensional space travel, and she can afford to be twelve hours into a rotation that will never end. "It's too soon to tell."

Charys' fur bristles, arches, and Ford immediately reaches for his coat, shrugging it on. With a scramble of claws on gabardine, Charys leaps onto his shoulder, guard hairs stiff along her neck. Hanging up, Ford moves back to the stove, and carelessly dumps the pot in the sink. He fills it with water, but leaves it, checking his coat for his wallet. It is with the barest presence of mind that Ford thinks to call his assistant, to tell her to take the next day off.

* * *

"No identification?" He shakes his head, "And as far as you know, he's uninsured?"

"As far as we know," Charys confirms, fur still tense, and muscles knotted. She stares at the nurse with an unnerving gaze, "You said he was recovering?" She asks, voice rich with worry. There is an anger there, growing in the fading concern.

"Yes, he's responded well to the blood transfusion," The nurse confirms, his squirrel monkey dæmon's tail loops around his neck. He taps a few keys, eyes flickering away from Charys, "He's being held under observation, but he should be ready for release today," Here the nurse pauses, looking between the bristling snarl that is Charys, and the equally abrupt gaze of Ford.

"Can I see him?" Ford asks without preamble, pressing one hand against Charys' side and feeling her shudder. The nurse's eyes catch on Ford's hand, and the fierce mood gathering between him and Charys seethes. She bares her teeth, lip curling, ears laying back, and the man looks away.

"Second floor," His dæmon answers. "Can you come by front desk again before leaving?"

"Sure, fine," Ford waves a hand dismissively, and rolling his eyes, he snaps his credit card on the desk. "For billing. I'll pick it up before I go." With that he turns away, negotiates the crowd between him and the elevators, and jabs a thumb at the button. Charys is growling lowly in his ear, and it feels like a curl of heat in his chest, the weight of something on his ribcage.

To Stan's credit, he looks like  _shit_. He's awake, with Merys curled up by his arm. She is a worrying amber colour, stray dust gathered under her fur, and the lines under Stan's eyes are deeper than before. Against Ford's neck, Charys is quivering, ears laid back, and tail stiffened.

Less to Stan's credit, he looks genuinely surprised to see Ford, eyebrows furrowing, "Ford?" Merys stares at Charys mutely, "What are you doing here?"

"What am _I_ doing here?" Ford's worry flourishes into a fury, "Alcohol poisoning, and tylenol," He hisses. "You're  _lucky_ someone found you." If there wasn't an I.V snaking along Stan's elbow, and maybe if Merys didn't look so thin, and maybe if Stan didn't look so completely awful -- then, then Ford would shake him by the shoulders.

As it stands, Charys lunges onto the bed heavily, sniffing Merys with her tail still spiked, fur bristled into angry spines. Growling - loudly, thickly, a glorious mangled noise - Charys drops down over Stan's legs, trapping Merys between her paws.

" _Why_ can't I take airplanes?" Ford asks, the question burning. He doesn't give Stan an edgeways to talk through. "You realize you very nearly died, don't you? Again, _what did you do to get labelled a flight risk_?" Stan is very much alive, and just looking at him makes Ford a scalding sort of anger, irritation and frustration spilling out of him. "What were you  _thinking_?  _Were_ you thinking? Do you have  _any idea_ what your stupidity is costing me? What it has  _always_ cost me?"

He stares at Stanley, breath heavy, chest tight, and his brother looks at him with an exhausted, resigned coldness. "Yes," Stan states flatly.

There is a chair by the bed, and Ford collapses into it, like a thin island crumbling into an inexorable ocean. His anger is swallowed up, and his worry is cracked open, and Charys is licking Merys' fur in long, anxious swipes of her tongue.

"Flight risk-" Ford repeats. "Do you know how hard that made it to get here?"

"Always count on you for a warm welcome," Stan says, a little distantly. His gaze has slid away from Ford, but now it raises to look at Ford with renewed confusion. "Speaking of, why are you here?"

He squints at his brother, "...You almost died."

"Forget that," Stan snorts, "How did they contact you?"

"They called me."

"That's what I mean," Stan sounds tired of this conversation, and Merys is still in Chary's hold. "I never gave them your number."

The anger flares again, "I daresay you were unconscious at the time."

"Mh," Stan turns his head away, looking at his wallet sitting on the bedside table. He reaches for it with an uneasy hand, and with a surprising sleight, takes out a yellowing slip of paper with Ford's number written in faded ink. That seems to answer Stan's question, and he looks at Ford again. 

His expression catches Ford off-guard. It's not hurt, it's not really anything. More tired than a true emotion.

"Are you okay?" Ford asks quietly, lacing his fingers together and looking down at his hands.

"Just a bit careless," Stan remarks, giving a short, dry laugh. "Can you believe all this is over back pain?"

His brother looks awful, and Ford taps his fingers against the back of his hand, "Not really."

"You don't get it? Lucky you-"

"You mustknow about tylenol," The anger is back, digging into Ford. He's thrown between his feelings with so little warning, and it shows when the anger immediately fractures. "Stan, you  _must_ know."

"Heh, I don't know as much as you." Stan glances down at their dæmons. Charys is draped over his legs, still licking Merys sloppily, even miserably. Where Ford fluctuates between fear, and fury in tight succession, Charys wells with relief. It washes over Ford little by little, but Merys is stone-still between Charys' claws. "She's very heavy, think you could-?"

Ford startles, "Heavy? Oh!" Apologetically he moves forward to pull Charys off Stan, but she bristles at his touch.

Chuckling, Ford raises an eyebrow at him, "She listens to you less than ever."

"He listens to  _me_ less than ever," Charys mutters, resettling in her spot.

"Easy on us, Charys," Stan remarks, and with a short huff - soft, accepting - Charys lets go of Merys, and moves to curl at Stan's side. Gingerly, Ford reaches out, curling his fingers into her fur again, and the relief is cooling. It's only feeling it that something settles into understanding within Ford. He digs his fingers in, smooths them out in Charys' ruff.

"You worried me there; I kept thinking you weren't going to be here the entire drive," He says it cautiously, feeling it out. "Being a flight risk is incredibly inconvenient." Stroking his fingertips in his dæmon's fur, Ford continues, stilted, "I tried to contact you," He looks up enough to roll his eyes at Stan, "You're a hard guy to find. It was really frustrating-"

"We're in hospital," Merys speaks up at last, voice shivering, but eyes narrowed, "Stop being a jackass."

"Oh," Ford stops, squinting uncertainly.

"I think I would have done anything to get you back," Charys continues, smoothly, voice even and clear. She drops her head against Merys, eyes half-closing contently. "Including a lot of stupid things."

"Jackass," Stan murmurs.

"You should come home," Ford blurts out, and the word home  _stings_ in his mouth, it absolutely  _stings_ , and he grips Charys' fur tightly, pulling at it painfully. Stumbling over the feeling, Ford clutters onwards - even though he's said what matters, something waiting to be said since Stan was thrown out - "I mean, when you get released. You shouldn't come home just yet. You're still on a drip, for crying out loud. But they said you should get out today, and you should come home-"

Merys and Stan are giving him looks that could peel paint, and he falls silent, hand still gripping onto Charys for dear life.

"Easy on us," Merys murmurs, pressing her head back against Charys. "We're too old for this."

Charys laughs, the sound scratching like a growl. It settles warm, and weighty, and _achingly_ familiar in Ford's chest. "So are we," Charys answers, sounding feather-light.


End file.
